


La Niña de Los Ojos Verdes

by Modernise



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: (Wow that sounds like a bandname. Ziio and the OCs. Haha I like it), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Because of Reasons, Except Ziio and the OCs, F/F, Genderbending, Rivalry, everyone is genderbent, flamenco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Modernise/pseuds/Modernise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïra flew to Andalusia to attend the world's top dancing school she'd been accepted into. She was expecting all the dancing and instructors and bullshit, but Malika came as a surprise. She was still unsure as to whether it was a blessing or a curse.<br/>Malika had lived in Andalusia her entire life, yet she'd never encountered a gold-eyed devil (until she met Altaïra).</p><p>(A.k.a. Ziio is a flamenco teacher, while fem!Altaïr and fem!Malik are two of her more prominent students. And then there's fem!Haytham)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tarde (Yo No Llego)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this exactly 7 months ago and didn't want to post it till it was finished. It's been 7 months and if I don't post this, it's just going to be sitting there so I might as well.  
> This was a fill for a prompt I can't seem to find, but they requested that it'd be Altaïr and Malik doing some form of dance. I was tempted to fulfil the request.  
> Unfortunately, due to laziness and hectic schedules I've managed to finish half of it (most of it done in the first 2 months or so). I do want to finish it, but I can't make any promises. It's not as though I've ever been good. At promise making. Regardless, I hope it's not too shitty.
> 
> And I know Malik doesn't have green eyes, but I saw a screenshot months ago and I could've sworn his eyes were like hazel-green so I decided to dedicate this story to that. It's not genetically impossible either, especially with Kadar's eyes being blue and all.

Those virescent eyes were sizing her up again, and she knew; she knew because she was doing the same exact thing. The girl with the green eyes and her unremitting stare or, more appropriately, glare continued to penetrate her at an interminable rate. Perhaps the girl could become the next Sharbat Gula, although the thought did not prevent her from wondering why one of the most prestigious dance academies in the world would accept this lioness out of all the other thousand auditionees who'd competed for a spot in the world's most exclusive dance academy. She did not realise that, in the process of musing, she was scowling right back at olive eyes.

"Altaïra Khaltamze Bint-La'Ahad," an accented voice called out, snapping her from her faze. Someone had called her name. She turned towards the source of the vocalisation and was greeted with the sight of a young woman, possibly in her twenties or thirties, her arms folded across her chest with a flinty look on her face. "Um, yeah?" Altaïra replied, unsure of what to say. She did not know who that woman was.

"Not one for first impressions, hm?" the woman said. She was tall, a willowy woman with a svelte body and silky hair, which fell down in a fishtail braid over her caramel skin. She was exotic, like that girl with the green eyes, to say the least. Altaïra shook her head. "Well, that's not good to know. It's your first day and you're already late," continued the woman.

"Traffic," murmured Altaïra, realising that olive eyes was probably glaring at her for that exact reason. What a quaker.

The woman shifted from one foot to the other, looking directly at Altaïra with a strange sort of sternness which amalgamated with a soft gentleness that one would only expect from a mother scolding her child. "I'm quite sure. Just let this be the last time this happens. Understood?"

Altaïra merely shrugged, having more of a conversation with the decorative feather in the woman's hair rather than with the woman herself. "Yeah."

"Ziio," interjected the woman. An inquisitive response elicited a swift addition to the one-worded sentence. "I am Ziio, and I will be one of your instructors."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU I made Altaïr (a.k.a. Altaïra / fem!Altaïr) half-Georgian and half-Arabic. And I meant Georgia the country, not the US state.


	2. La Introducción (de Una Gitana)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are cool. Until Altaïra accidentally makes Malika hate her.

"I've realised that none of us have properly introduced ourselves," announced one of the instructors who actually was not Ziio.

Not-Ziio, who happened to be the living human form of a little ball of sunshine with her blue eyes and pale, freckled skin, flashed an amicable smile (which, by the way, she'd only been doing about thirteen times within the five minutes she'd been there) at everyone. Her hair, which resembled something akin to cornsilk, was bound into a messy bun and seemed to develop a rhythm of its own as she spoke, gesticulating wildly with her hands.

She said that her name was Leona, and explained how everyone had to introduce themselves and, based off what Altaïra understood, give their life biography or something. It wasn't that she was ignoring _señora instructora-maestra-profesora_ , or whatever the word 'instructor' was in Spanish, because she was all ears. Altaïra was completely, two-hundred percent all ears to whatever her animated instructor was chattering on about. She'd had drawn a graph to prove it, but she was incapable of doing so at the moment.

That olive-eyed girl, whom Altaïra had only seen about twenty-four hours earlier, demanded the complete attention of her optical senses. Altaïra could only comply, fully abandoning her auditory senses after registering the conclusion of Leona's introduction about twelve minutes earlier.

Altaïra, utterly devoid of anything to listen to due to a lack of interest for her fellow peers, began anticipating green eyes' turn, who was actually ignoring her at that point in time. She came to notice a tiny dusting of pink over her cheeks and reckoned that it certainly was not makeup.

She continuously told herself that she wasn't interested in green eyes and her life story because she was smitten or anything, for that wasn't the case at all. To put it in simpler terms, it was merely good-natured curiosity. There was nothing wrong with that, and it was nothing to be ashamed of.

"Your turn," the girl next to green eyes said with a smile once she was done speaking. Green eyes appeared to be slightly confused for a split second before realising that it was her turn to introduce herself. Altaïra tuned down the preconceived notions buzzing in her head to hear what green eyes had to say.

"My name is Malika, but my full name is Malika Inéz Al-Sayf," she said with a prominent accent. Altaïra didn't even have to think to know that she was a Spaniard after hearing her speak, but was happy to know that green eyes at least had a name. "I am nineteen years old, and I was born in Jerez de la Frontera, but I grew up in Málaga."

" _¿Eres una gitana?_ " a random voice blurted out. It was just too bad that Altaïra's Spanish was close to shit, so she didn't know what they had just said. Malika's way of responding, however, was to blush slightly before saying, " _Sí, pero yo soy medio gitana_."

The enquirer nodded in apprehension while Altaïra sighed internally. Perhaps moving to Spain to pursue a career in flamenco _without knowing Spanish_ wasn't such a wise decision. Where was Siri when she needed her?

"For those of you who don't speak Spanish, I'm half-Romani and half-Arab. My father was a Moroccan-born Syrian, while my mother was a pure _gitana_ ," and at that moment everything (or at least _almost_ everything) made sense to Altaïra. Of course Malika would be half-Gypsy and half-Arab, it explained her exotic features quite well.

"Do you speak Arabic?" somebody else enquired, fortunately in English. "Yes," she replied, "Along with Caló, Spanish, Romano, and English."

And while their group of fellow peers lionised Malika's exoticism, Altaïra was fueling her intention on vocalising her very own question.

"So, how's it like being a gypsy?" Altaïra questioned once the chatter had subsided, not realising how derisive her query sounded. The air immediately congested with a thick haze of discomfort. A sanguine-dipped brush painted her face the colour of agitation and Malika, ever one to spew fire, swiftly retorted, "How's it like being a benighted fool, _gilipolla_?"

Their previously silent peers immediately erupted with an abundance of "Ohhh!"s and "Burn!"s and really, Altaïra thought, how old were they again? Because she truly did not know which was more stupid: The fact that she was reliving grade school with these people who were supposed to be among the top twenty dancers in the entire _world_ (in fact, the only twenty, out of thousands, to get accepted by the pickiest and most renowned dance academies to ever grace the face of the planet), or that some cheeky Malika girl with her Sharbat Gula-looking ass had literally just sassed her out less than five minutes earlier.

But maybe it was all just a grave misunderstanding due to their manifest language barriers, and really, Altaïra actually intended on carrying on with her life, but being called a "benighted fool" was not something she'd easily let go of. And like hell she knew what a _gilipolla_ was; it probably wasn't something nice, anyway.

 _Señorita_  sass-mouth was watching Altaïra with a smug expression on her face, the calculating wench she was.

Altaïra sent her a dirty look and was sure it wouldn't be the last one she'd send Malika's way either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spanish translations**
> 
>   * _Señorita_ = Miss
>   * _Instructora_ = Instructor
>   * _Maestra_ = (Female) Teacher
>   * _Profesora_ = Professor
>   * _¿Eres una gitana?_ = Are you a gypsy
>   * _Sí, pero yo soy medio gitana_ = Yes, but I'm half-gypsy
>   * _Gilipolla_ = Asshole/Jerk
> 



	3. Al-Markaz Al-Entebah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late teachers and bodycon dresses really do fuck Altaïra up.

Her inky bodycon dress, hugging her body in the most artful of ways, really did nothing to hide her... temporal figure. In actuality, the only thing it did was accentuate her impeccable hourglass figure. After her arrival to Spain, Altaïra had long since learned one thing: That those Spaniards and their bodies were the deadliest of weapons. Malika's was only among the epitome of them all.

It wasn't of a licentious nature, the slinky dress ending only above her knees, but her body gave it a much more sultry appearance.

Altaïra would have renamed her to be _Malika, al-Markaz al-Entebah_ , or no, even more accurate: _Malika al-Entebah_ , for even bothering to wear such a figure-hugging dress, but when she realised that Malika wasn't really paying attention to her fellow contemporaries (thus rendering her immune from any attention seeking-related accusations) Altaïra found the name _Malika al-Masrahiya_ more befitting.

She looked down at the athletic hoodie and pair of sweatpant-leggings hybrid she was wearing, then involuntarily back up at Malika and that goddamn dress she was sporting. Altaïra was well aware that female flamenco dancers wore dresses when performing (and usually when practicing and/ or rehearsing), but was it really necessary to inflict such a harsh punishment (read: beautiful blessing) upon Altaïra's eyes? Malika was a complete torture to look at (synonymous with " _the global definition for eye-candy, or something akin to it_ "), and Altaïra's eyes felt like they went to hell (read: heaven) every time she gazed (gaze? Altaïra was merely _observing_ ) at Malika. And her stupid dress.

_La profesora_ finally had enough sense to show up. It was about time because Altaïra was running out of things to distract herself with from Malika, but at least that was taken care of.

" _Buenos días_ ," Ziio (was Altaïra supposed to call her _Señora_ Ziio?) said. The twenty disciples, whose mouths were already shut before the entrance of their instructor, gave their reply of, " _Buenos días, Señora_ ," in unison. _La señora_ smiled. " _Buenos y gracias_ , _mis amores_." The feather was present in her plaited hair again, albeit a different one. "Today will be fairly simple," she made known, "We will be pairing you up with a partner." Ziio sensed the wave of curiosity eradiating off her students. " _Sí_ , you _will_ be split up into pairs based off the level of skill you've shown us in your audition," she confirmed. "Besides, this is flamenco, what did you expect? To be dancing by yourselves?"

The students shook their heads and Altaïra stole a glance at Malika who, coincidentally, was doing the same. Malika glared through narrowed eyes with the fierceness of a tigress, with a look that was too hostile to be even remotely human. Her eyes were silent, yet her eyes spoke. It spoke the tales of a rivalry, of the wildfire burning up the verdure of her eyes, of a dormant superiourity. Not all was reticent. It spoke of a challenge, and dared Altaïra to react. So it was a challenge she sought? The edge of her lips curved upwards. Altaïra would be more than happy to oblige and prove her primacy. So be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arabic translations**
> 
>   * _Al-markaz al-entebah_ = The centre of attention
>   * _Malika al-Entebah_ = Queen of attention
>   * _Malika al-Masrahiya_ = Queen of drama
> 

> 
> **Spanish translations**
> 
>   * _Buenos días_ = Good morning
>   * _Buenos y gracias, mis amores_ = Good [morning] and thank you, my loves
>   * _Sí_ = Yes
> 



	4. Settle For a Draw (With Those Dancing Shoes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was she blessed with a curse, or cursed with a blessing? Was she blessed, or was she cursed? It's hard to tell when you've got them dancing shoes on.

Nothing ever went Altaïra's way. Nothing ever went her way, and if anyone had the audacity to even ask, "How come?" Altaïra would give them a good punch to the face for being an annoying shit before letting them have a good look at her _permanent_ partner. Also known as "the-person-who-she'd-be-dancing-and-partenered-up-with-for-the-rest-of-the-time-spent-studying-flamenco-in-her-school." Who just so happened to be Malika. No, not just any Malika, but specifically Malika Inéz Al-Sayf. _La mitad gitana_ , Altaïra learned.

It wasn't like she hadn't tried to get someone else (and, for once, Malika was on the same page with that), but no matter how many times she closed her eyes and murmured, " _Khara_ ," or " _Mdzgneri_ ," to herself, Malika would still be her partner whenever she opened her eyes.

Great. She hadn't even known Malika for more than two days and they already knew that they were on opposite teams. Whoever coined the term "Opposites attract," deserved a kick in the face. The fool somehow must have confused 'magnets' with 'human beings.' Altaïra would make sure that their gift was presented to them personally.

"Novice," Malika called. Altaïra remembered that they were supposed to be practicing something together. " _Sí_ , _satán_?" Her Spanish may have been quite limited, but certain words and phrases were not omitted from her meagre wordbook.

Every three words or phrases she knew were not exactly compliments or words of kindness. And nine of out ten times, those words or phrases were directed towards Malika. At least that gave her an incentive to learn Spanish.

" _Liwajhillah_ ," Malika grit out. She glared not daggers nor knives, but she glared machetes. Altaïra, fully amused by the reaction, tutted with unnecessary commiseration. "It's alright," she heartened, with the false hues of actual concern. She would have patted her shoulders, but she didn't want to lose a finger. "You could always stomp your anger out later," referring to the elaborate, rhythmic stomping involved in a typical flamenco dance.

Hephæstus' hammer hit the anvil and sparks flew, searing anything within range. "It is your face I will be stomping on," Malika hissed in her accented English. Altaïra shrugged as if the threat hadn't even been uttered. "In that case, I'll just go get a red blanket and shout ' _Toro_ ' at you." Malika's eyes glowed. "You insufferable—"

"Ah, so that is how one does a _claqué_. Wow, I never knew. I must have been doing it wrong this entire time," a sarcastic voice mused, aborting Malika's sharp retort.

 _La señora_ had her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised. The feather was still in her hair. The duo fell silent and awaited their penalty, their eyes making up for the lack of words.

Ziio, however, merely sighed. "What am I going to do with you two? You fight like cat and dog."

"Perhaps we could be assigned alternate partners, _señora_ ," suggested Malika, trying her luck again. Altaïra nodded her head vigourously, hoping to God that they would no longer have to be partners. But fate, or whatever the hell was ruining her life with Malika's presence, seemed to have other plans. "No," Ziio shook her head with a firm conviction, "You will have to learn to deal with each other." Malika's face fell, and hope drained from Altaïra's face. " _Pero_..." started Malika. " _¿Pero qué_ , Malika?" asked Ziio.

Malika frowned and at that moment Altaïra realised that her spirit animal was that of a child throwing a tantrum. Or perhaps she was just very desperate not to have yours truly as her partner. " _¿Por qué no?_ " she enquired.

"Because," explained Ziio, "The stars were in the position. Now get to practicing." Ziio walked away to attend to a more pertinent business, leaving a stunned Malika in the wake. Altaïra snorted.

" _Cállate, novicia_ ," and an emerald glare was sent her way.

Altaïra smirked. "Cayatay-ing is something I won't. I will, however, practice the tapping exercise as _señora_ instructed, regardless of whether it's with or without you." Malika pursed her lips and her voice suddenly went very cold. "I was going to remind you that, but you _had_ to cut me off to give me one of your nonsense replies." Altaïra's brow raised. "You accuse me of saying anything but the truth?"

Malika's mouth opened to shoot out a reprisal, but she must have tasted her words because she shut it before anything could be said. Her eyes followed suit, and she took a deep breath in before opening her eyes again. Her hands immediately began to twist to a rhythmic contrivance playing behind her eyes. Her arms slowly ascended to the top of her head while she continued with the gyrating of her hands as her head tilted back slightly. Her right foot stood poised afore her left foot, and before Altaïra had the chance to ask how a devil like her could get possessed, Malika took one step forward and her arms descended, hands continuously pirouetting, slowly completing a full circle immediately thereafter. Then she froze and Altaïra had nary a moment to ask what the hell had happened because she instantaneously began to do more of those intricate hand and arm motions, twisting in every way about and twirling her body like that of a ballerina figurine. Her arms slowly moved up as she twirled and she almost would have looked like a hawk, fierce and predatory. Another twirl, and then a stop.

Malika lowered her head, pretending to lift up the imaginary dress she was not wearing (just a black laced skirt and a grey cardigan over a white shirt. What a minimalist). She paused, lifted up her head, and began to tap to the rhythm of a beat. At first it was slow and precise, but as her speed increased so did her synchronisation. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Left right right, left right. Left left left, right left. Her taps were timed, and Altaïra found herself enchanted. Occasionally, Malika would kick one specific foot out as she alternated between the directions she'd face. Her hands holding the skirt weren't left out and she moved them from left to right, her hips following the lead.

She continued for a couple minutes, her breathing getting more laboured by the second, but carrying on as though she had something to prove. And then she finally stopped, one arm shooting upward with more elegance than needed. Malika's eyes steadily met Altaïra's, who stood with her arms crossed. As her chest rose and fell, Altaïra was the first to comment.

"I could do it better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arabic translations**
> 
>   * _Khara_ = Shit
>   * _Liwajhillah_ = For God's sake
> 

> 
> **Spanish translations**
> 
>   * _La mitad gitana_ = The half-gypsy
>   * _Satán_ = Satan
>   * _Claqué_ = Tap dance
>   * _Pero [qué]_ = But [what]
>   * _¿Por qué no?_ = Why not?
>   * _Cállate, novicia_ = Shut up, novice
> 

> 
> **Georgian translations**
> 
>   * _Mdzgneri_ = Shit
> 



	5. Never Again (Will There Be Another One Quite As Desirable As You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hayden was quite a woman. A charming, lovely one, too. Wonderful was just another way to put it.

Ziio looked down at the coffee in her cup and stirred. Her conversational partner, the one who had invited her to the little café in the first place, sat across from her with an identical cup containing tea in its stead. The perpetual chitchat of surrounding neighbours encompassed their table. Her partner must have decided to join, because she asked Ziio whether her coffee had enough had enough sugar. "... Or milk, or whatever you like your coffee with," she said.

"Thank you, Ms. Kenway, but it really is fine," Ziio replied.

She smirked and lifted her cup of tea to her lips. "Please do not feel compelled to call me that," she said around her cuppa, British accent pristine as spring water, "As I am not the Queen. Call me Hayden." She took a sip of her tea.

"Hayden," Ziio murmured, testing it on her tongue. It gave off a sweet aftertaste.

She smiled and a breeze picked up, gently toying with Hayden's chestnut hair.

 _Ataensic_ must have been smiling too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ataensic_ is a sky Goddess part of Iroquois legend. Please do remember that the Mohawk (Ziio's tribe) are part of the Iroquois Confederacy.


	6. Holding Onto Higher Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kadira may just be the only person (hell, even _thing_ ) that Malika loves.

" _Ducas tenela min dai, ducas tenelo yo_ ," Malika crooned, reciting an old song that her mother used to sing to her. She leapt and pirouetted about her kitchen, " _Las de min dai yo sieno, las de mangue no_."

" _Mientras que la hermana se muere de hambre!_ " a second voice added.

" _La_ , Kadira," Malika chided, ceasing her movement immediately. "Have patience. The food is not going to cook itself."

" _Iyeh, akhti_ , but may I remind you that I've been waiting for _eighty-nine freaking years_ , and the food still is not ready?" Kadira grumbled.

Malika laughed and turned to smile at her younger sister fondly. Kadira Al-Sayf. Perhaps just a younger, spunkier version of herself with a bubblier personality. It was Kadira, the closest thing she had left to a family nowadays after her mother died and father left. She made a silly face, and Malika realised that she had been staring for far too long. "Jealous of my good looks?" she said, flipping a lock of hair behind her shoulder.

"We've both the same parents," Malika murmured.

" _Bas bimzakh_ , _akhti_!"

A smile tinged her face. " _Ya akhayyatun_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spanish translations**
> 
>   * _Ducas tenela min dai, ducas tenelo yo. Las de min dai yo sieno, las de mangue no_ = My mother has of griefs a store, and I have got my own. Full keen and sore I hers deplore, but never for mine I moan. (Caló Spanish)
>   * _Mientras que la hermana se muere de hambre!_ = While the sister starves to death!
> 

> 
> **Arabic translations**
> 
>   * _La_ = No
>   * _Iyeh_ = Yes
>   * _Akhti_ = My sister
>   * _Bas bimzakh_ = I'm just kidding
>   * _Ya akhayyatun_ = Oh little sister
> 



	7. I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altaïra was done. Well, not literally, just in a figurative sense.

Those bullshit travel agencies deserved a slap in the Goddamn face, Altaïra thought to herself.

Was there a lot of time to kill in Spain?

Yes.

Was it worth it?

 _Hell no_.

They could all fuck off with their dumb ass lies. What the fuck was Spain anyway? Just a speck in the Universe filled with Spaniards (bingo, Sherlock, you've cracked the case) and... and fucking green eyes. Oh, wait, no. How could she? Green eyes was a human, too. She had a name. It was Queen. Not like the band, though. She could never compare.

But annually speaking, how many unfortunate tourists did Spain deceive with its false looks and good lies? Possibly millions.

And here Altaïra was, sitting in a bar, sipping on what was conceivably her third bottle of whatever brand of beer her bartender had provided her with. She slowly rotated the bottle. _Mahou_ , it was called. Embroidered in colours of red and gold. But what difference did it make.

Altaïra took another swig of the bottle.

She missed her Jack Daniels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offense intended to anyone. I just tried to portray Altaïra's anger; I do not agree with it, however.


End file.
